A Relationship in 100 Words: the Regret, the Catfish, and the Affair

That week at the beach: beer-soaked, sunburned. I'd half-loved him for half of high school and high school was over. He had a girlfriend, but here, we were free to talk all night. We loved the same books and the same ideas. We sat on the same sand, just inches apart. Four years later: blacked out on brown whiskey and spiraling into the sparkling dark. When it finally happened, it was fast, fumbled, buzzing around the edges. In the morning, I took a deep breath and drew away. Done. The half-shadows in my half-dreams, slow fading smell of the sea. —Carrie Murphy "But she was never convicted," I said to my roommates. They were telling me I shouldn't go see my girl in the Bronx. I did go. Her mother loved me. I slept on the couch. In the morning, she said she had "things to do" and hugged me in her huge arms. That was the first and last time I saw her. She still calls me the week of my birthday, but never acknowledges it. October must trigger something in her brain, a reminder of the girl from online who rode the 4 for an hour just to

That week at the beach: beer-soaked, sunburned. I'd half-loved him for half of high school and high school was over. He had a girlfriend, but here, we were free to talk all night. We loved the same books and the same ideas. We sat on the same sand, just inches apart.

Four years later: blacked out on brown whiskey and spiraling into the sparkling dark. When it finally happened, it was fast, fumbled, buzzing around the edges. In the morning, I took a deep breath and drew away. Done. The half-shadows in my half-dreams, slow fading smell of the sea.

—Carrie Murphy

"But she was never convicted," I said to my roommates.

They were telling me I shouldn't go see my girl in the Bronx. I did go.

Her mother loved me. I slept on the couch. In the morning, she said she had "things to do" and hugged me in her huge arms.

That was the first and last time I saw her. She still calls me the week of my birthday, but never acknowledges it. October must trigger something in her brain, a reminder of the girl from online who rode the 4 for an hour just to say hey.

—Nancy Ryerson

"Let's do something different," you said.

So you took me to a hotel not far away, but far enough for me to pretend. In the elevator's gilt-framed mirror you smiled at me. After a bottle of champagne, you called me by her name, an almost-pause and avoiding-eyes our only acknowledgement. We talked of the World Series, Mexican drug cartels, the one percent.

And then silence.

Your hand on my thigh, my head on your shoulder, until housekeeping's knock told us our time was up. You kissed my forehead—better than any of the other ways you kissed me that night.

—Ashley Bennett

Carrie Murphy is a poet, freelance writer, and doula. Her first collection of poems, PRETTY TILT, was released by Keyhole Press in 2012. She is a daily contributor at Bustle.com and her work has also appeared on Refinery29, Bitch, Blisstree, and other outlets.

Nancy Ryerson is a journalist, vegetarian, and bassoon player in New York City. She's a staff writer at DOTmed News covering medical technology, and has written elsewhere about Chinese ice cream, Ethiopian coffee, and Ricki Lake's home birth. She tweets here.

*Ashley Marie Bennett is a graduate of the University of Michigan. She runs her own ACT test-prep business. She likes cooking, watching the Detroit Tigers, and reading (murder mysteries are her guilty pleasure). Ashley lives in Howell, Michigan.